


The Face on the Milk Carton

by wisdomeagle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, Sex that fails to be healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-29
Updated: 2004-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisdomeagle/pseuds/wisdomeagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After seasons 3/6, Willow and Wesley are both very lost. They attempt to comfort each other, without success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Face on the Milk Carton

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sage_theory (papersage)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersage/gifts).



"How did you get so lost?"

"I don't know, Wesley. When you're little, you think there will always be people there, to catch you, to hold your hand when you cross the street, you know? And then --"

"You grow up," said Wesley, leaning closer to her, hands behind his back. "We all must grow up, Willow. You and I, and people like us, must grow up quickly."

Willow took a step backward. "Don't you ever want to be a little girl--er, I mean, a boy again?"

A flash of pain registered in Wesley's eyes, but he said nothing, except, "Do you?" placing a hand on her shoulder. This time, Willow didn't flinch.

"When I was a kid, I spent seven years wanting to date a boy who can't spell his own last name -- I mean, not that Xander isn't --" suddenly Willow was aware of a lump in the back of her throat. "I wanted him to love me so much. And now he does -- not like that, but -- and I don't deserve it."

"No," said Wesley, absently. "Love is very rarely deserved." His hand still rested on Willow's shoulder. She didn't move away, and his fingers pressed into her more deeply. "Very rarely, Willow, are the lost ever found."

"But, they put their faces on milk cartons! They --"

"Do you know how many children a year the Watchers' Council labels missing, presumed by supernatural causes?"

"Lots?"

His fingers were closing in on her neck, starting to massage a sore spot. No answer, just a hand creeping closer, till it touched her hair, brushing it back.

"I got so lost," said Willow, quietly.

"I know." He kissed her, and she felt her shoulders tense. "Just relax." Willow let him kiss her, realized she'd slid closer to him. Her hips were inches away from his; she finally reached up to touch his face. His cheeks scratched hers, burned her skin. His fingers, now daintily brushing her hair away from her face, now skimming down her face, were surprisingly delicate, though his fingertips were hard and rough. Finally, he moved his mouth away, licking her once more, and put the tip of a finger to her lips. Willow sighed, opened her mouth, let him in. His erection pressed against her. Her cheeks burned from the fresh beard, and his finger slid in and out of her mouth slowly, then withdrew so he could kiss her again.

"Willow," he sighed. "Everything will be all right. Just let me --"

Wesley. Unsmiling and cold and lost, his center hidden so deep down, his control so unswerving. Wesley. She felt magic, golden and pure, wavering in her skin, brushing Wesley's skin. He gasped, thrust his tongue deeper into her, and she sighed. Wesley.

He murmured poetry in Latin (a spell?), fingered the strap of her bra, nudging it off her shoulder. Her hands slipped up his shirt, finding a fine mass of curly hairs with her fingertips, a nasty mess of prickles in his energy. She smoothed him.

Wesley's hands had found the waistband of her skirt, and he gasped, between kisses, "May I please -- I would be --"

She nodded into him, lips pressing further into his mouth as his hands rose, inside her skirt, running over her inner thighs, exciting goosebumps and suddenly hardening her nipples, pressed into his chest. She tried, fumblingly, to unbutton his shirt, succeeding in exposing a patch of scarred skin, tearing his shirt in the process.

Somewhere far beneath her, Wesley's hands were massaging wet cotton underpants filled with wet Willow. She tried to move her hands downward, but something stopped her, nothing physical (Wesley's attentions were focused elsewhere) but something untouchable about him, something real and something dangerous. "Allow me," he whispered, as if he'd sensed her thoughts, and she closed her eyes and let her hands rest gently on his back, praying that he would relax.

Wesley was rigid and Wesley was careful as he slipped Willow out of her skirt and slipped himself into Willow. Willow felt a moan slip out, pushed up against Wesley, taking more and taking him deeper, waiting for him to relax, for his skin to soften, for his desire to overflow. But it never happened. She thought about the ways Oz and Tara had made love to her, and couldn't repress a whimpering moan.

"Hush, Willow," said Wesley, softly. "Let me take care of you."

She thought of words she could say, of love poems, of endearments, of kissing Wesley's cheek, of holding his hand, of telling him she loved him. And Wesley's hands were cold as they caressed her skin, but his dick was hard and demanding. Wesley, listen to me, she thought, but when he looked at her, he looked through her eyes, but whatever he was seeing, it wasn't her heart, wasn't her core.

"I got so lost," she whispered, but Wesley couldn't hear her.


End file.
